


White Shadow Made of Mercury

by anaphiel, pinesing



Series: If You're a Heretic, Then So Am I [1]
Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Accidental meeting, Bonding, Canon Compliant, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaphiel/pseuds/anaphiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinesing/pseuds/pinesing
Summary: "I came over here expecting a facetious conversation and perhaps someone to warm my bed tonight. I didn't expect to like you."Raistlin blinks at Dalamar, surprised, and for the first time in a long time, Raistlin Majere laughs.--During his early days as Master of the Tower of Palanthas, Raistlin travels to Wayreth to inform the Conclave that the tower is his, and his alone. Along the way, he meets Dalamar Nightson, a recently-banished dark elf with plans to one day take the Test, and the two get along surprisingly well. PWP





	White Shadow Made of Mercury

It’s far too loud here. Raistlin isn’t used to this kind of noise, the noise of the living, the happy, the _drunk_. Each booming laugh, each clang of a mug being set down too hard, each slam of a door surprises him. He’s been alone far too long, locked away in the Tower of Palanthas, poring over dusty tomes written by magi who haven’t been alive for thousands of years.

He sits alone in the corner of an inn. There’s nothing remarkable about the place, as far as Raistlin can tell. About a third of the patrons seem to be regulars, the others travelers, like him. In some ways, it reminds him of the Inn of the Last Home, but he quickly shakes the idea from his mind. There’s no room in his new life for nostalgia. 

Most of the guests give him a wide berth, the strange black-robed wizard sitting in the corner who watches people come and go with a sneer and the glitter of strange eyes…

He doesn’t much miss this, he realizes. Doesn’t miss being around people like _this._ The group of loud soldiers by the door, sellswords, by the look of them. The scattered clusters of distrustful travelers, regarding anyone outside their own parties with suspicion, sometimes even regarding the people _within_ with the same. The locals, much more relaxed, much more _drunk_. Then, there are a few who don’t fit any of the groups-- the old woman sitting near Raistlin, as near as any of them dare, nursing a drink by herself. The young couple-- some sort of clandestine meeting between lovers, most likely. The dark elf at the bar.

Raistlin’s gaze lingers on the last of these. The elf is young, so young that the lines of his face aren’t yet marred by decay, and _beautiful_ , in the same way Laurana had been when he’d last seen her. The elf is clearly Silvanesti, and apparently alone, unless the rest of his party have already retired for the evening. As Raistlin stares at the elf, he wonders at his story.

The elf meets his eyes, his face betraying nothing of his reaction at finding this stranger staring at him across the tavern. It isn’t a strange occurrence- he’s rather used to it. He picks up his drink and makes his way towards the figure, feeling a spark of interest deep in his gut at the sight of the black robes, the staff. A wizard, and one of _his_ kind. This would be a worthwhile meeting.

“See something you like?” he asks.

The wizard sneers and sits back, retreating into the depths of his hood. The golden light of the inn’s fire makes the tint of his skin less overtly noticeable, but there’s no hiding his eyes. He’s learned the hard way that he’s gained quite a bit of notoriety since the war, and on a journey like this, he’d rather not be recognized. “Not for a long time,” Raistlin says, somewhat truthfully.

“Can I join you?” the elf asks, gesturing to the chair across from the wizard.

Raistlin’s tempted to say no. He _wants_ to, but then, it’s been so long since he’s held a normal conversation, and he _is_ curious about this dark elf. He shrugs and holds a hand out to the seat as if to say, “Why not; go ahead.”

The elf sits, the picture of grace and poise. His cloak flutters around him and he drops his hood, letting the firelight play across his dark hair. He smiles, something like excitement flickering in his eyes. “Obnoxious, isn’t it?” he says, gesturing at the drunken patrons around them. “One would think they had better things to do.”

Raistlin raises an eyebrow, skeptical. The elf chose to lump himself in with _Raistlin_ over the others here, which could either be justified confidence or plain stupidity. “And yet you're here, too,” he says with a small smile. “What does that say about _you?”_

“I could ask you the same thing,” the elf replies, raising an eyebrow. “However, I can tell that, like me, you are one who prefers your own company. Hence why you’re over here, and not-” he gestures- “joining in.”

“If you were so astute as to be able to tell that,” Raistlin begins dryly, a hard edge slipping into his voice, “Then _why_ would you come join me?”

“I’m interested in you,” the elf replies. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an actually engaging conversation.” He doesn’t mention that he’s hoping to gain something specific from this conversation, something that will give him a leg up in the future.

“Ah, but I could be duller than the rest of them,” Raistlin says, waving a hand at the rest of the inn’s patrons. “You don’t know. Perhaps I isolate myself because I know I'm stupider than even they are.”

The elf laughs. “If you were less intelligent than they are, you surely wouldn’t know it.”

Raistlin shrugs. “I've known many fools at least aware enough to _know_ they're such.”

“Then they are wiser than you may give them credit for,” the elf says. “Not that that necessarily makes them good conversational partners.” He smiles.

Raistlin waves a hand vaguely and doesn't answer, determined to show that _he_ isn't a good conversational partner, either.

The elf takes a drink and surveys the crowd, then the wizard across from him. He has the almond-shaped eyes and dark hair of the Sylvanesti, but is wearing colors no Sylvan elf would be caught dead in. “Interesting crowd tonight. The woman behind you is a witch,” he says, nodding to the next closest patron. “I can smell the magic on her, but not strongly. And the group at the bar used to be in the Dragon Highlord’s armies. They’ve come a long ways, and I think they have further still to go. You can tell by the mud on their boots.” He’s almost talking to himself.

“How very observant,” Raistlin remarks, watching the elf closely, now.

“I could tell you what I’ve observed about you,” the elf offers. “Or you could tell me yourself, if you’d prefer.”

“Tell me what you've observed,” Raistlin says, and leans in, entranced by this young elf. Young, _very_ young. Even up close, Raistlin can see no decay on him. Time has not touched him.

The elf leans back and gives Raistlin a once-over, his expression showing more than just one kind of interest. “You’re obviously a black-robed wizard, and given your robes and your staff I can say that you have passed your Test, which proves you to be intelligent and capable beyond the petty dreams of most dabblers in magic. You’ve come a long way, by the mud on your hem. It’s a different color than the local soil. You’re unused to company. You’re a human, though I can’t tell from where, and you must be very young, judging from the lines on your hands. You’re suspicious of me, which I take to mean that you either do not have many friends, or you have a great deal of enemies. You- are ill,” he concludes, glancing at the tea and the wizard’s slight form. “Which means your travel must either be very important, to tear you from your recovery, or your illness is chronic.” He shrugs. “I could go on.”

“No. My turn,” Raistlin snaps, annoyed by how on point the elf’s observations actually are.. Underneath his hood, just the glimmer of his eyes in the firelight is visible; they're fixed unblinkingly on his companion. “You’re young. _Very_ young, for your kind-- less than a hundred, I’d wager. You seem _far_ too young to have been expelled from your Homeland, but,” Raistlin pauses here, head tilting to one side, “From your expression, I can see that it was recent. I know well what the pain of a fresh wound looks like. That explains what you're doing _here_ , in an Inn like this: aimless wandering to soothe a hurting heart, but what could you have done that warrants your own people abandoning you?” Beneath the hood, Raistlin smiles. “That, too, is obvious. You're not nearly as good at hiding your desires as you seem to think you are. Your excitement at seeing my robes...at coming over to talk to _me_ , a black robe, someone _most_ people would take great pains to avoid. It's the magic. You want it. You want to know more about it. You want to _impress me_ , so that I will tell you.”

The elf’s smile turns bitter and sardonic, something like anger flashing in his eyes. He sighs and shrugs, leaning back. “So you’ve caught me,” he says. “Are you going to turn me away? I’m very used to that, I’m sure you can tell.”

“On the contrary,” Raistlin says, sitting back in his seat again. “The desire for magic, I understand quite well.”

The elf smiles again, closer to a real one this time. “My name is Dalamar,” he says. “Dalamar Nightson.”

“Caramon,” Raistlin says, claiming the first name that pops into his mind. He smirks at Dalamar, as if challenging him to question it.

If Dalamar notices the fake name, he doesn’t question it, merely raises an eyebrow and continues. “What brought you to the black robes, Caramon?”

“Hm. Would you like the long story, or the short one?”

“Whichever is better,” Dalamar replies, charmed by the question.

“The short version, then,” Raistlin says with a smirk. “Power.”

Dalamar grins. That, he understands. “I feel I’ve always belonged to Nuitari, myself,” he says.

“Is that so?” Raistlin asks, his tone betraying no emotion.

Dalamar shrugs. “There can’t be balance if there’s only one option,” he says, rather cryptically.

“You're wiser than most of the Conclave, if you think so,” Raistlin says. “Have you had any magical training?”

Dalamar grimaces, old anger flaring just beneath the surface. “Very little. I wasn’t born into House Mystic, and so I was only allowed to learn small, subservient spells, charming rats and the like. The rest I taught myself.” He looks Raistlin in the face, waiting for something, an approval or reproach. “I’m widely regarded as an expert in runes and herblore, as well as magical artifacts.”

Raistlin drums his fingers on the table. “You'll need formal, rigid training if you expect to get anywhere. My teacher was a fool, but from him, at least, I learned the essentials, the foundations. You may be able to get through the Test teaching yourself, but beyond that…” He trails off.

“I hope to apprentice myself to someone,” Dalamar says, his eyes taking on a faraway look. He snaps out of it quickly. “All I’ve ever wanted is to learn.”

Raistlin has to keep himself from looking out the window, where three moons hang in the sky. He wonders, vaguely, if they arranged for this meeting to occur. Either way, its significance isn't lost on him. “Pass the test, and you'll find someone.”

“That is my hope,” Dalamar shrugs. He goes to take a drink and finds his glass empty. “I’m going to get more wine. Would you like any?”

Raistlin raises an eyebrow at the invitation. “No, I have my tea,” he says, his long fingers curling around the mug in front of him, almost protectively.

“Suit yourself,” Dalamar says, and weaves his way through the crowds to the bar. After a few minutes he returns with an entire bottle of wine.

Raistlin’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Going to drink all of that, are you?” he asks.

Dalamar shrugs. “Unless you change your mind, yes.”

“No,” Raistlin says mildly, raising his mug of tea to his lips, “No, I think I'd like to see that.”

“You want to get me drunk?” Dalamar laughs. “If you were that interested in getting me into bed you could have just asked.” He takes a long drink straight from the bottle and smirks at “Caramon”. “I’d have said yes.”

Raistlin chokes on his tea.

Dalamar laughs harder and pushes the bottle of wine towards him. “Here. Help me.”

Raistlin feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment and he takes the bottle from Dalamar, first performing a quick charm to check for poisons before raising it to his lips. He likes this elf, so far, but he does not trust him.

Dalamar sighs. “It isn’t the best wine I’ve ever come across.”

Raistlin shrugs and passes the bottle back to Dalamar. “If I can drink this tea, I can drink anything.”

Dalamar raises the bottle in a toast, and smiles. “So,” he says, passing it back. “Tell me about yourself.”

Raistlin's eyes drop to Dalamar’s mouth when he drinks, not that the elf would be able to tell, with the way Raistlin's hood is draped over his head. “What would you like to know?” Raistlin asks, taking the bottle automatically. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Not that that means I'll tell you.”

Dalamar considers for a moment. “Tell me where you think is the most beautiful place on Krynn,” he says.

Raistlin opens his mouth intending to deflect, or make some sort of sarcastic comment about not having time for things like _beauty_ , but what comes out instead is, “Solace.”

“Ah,” Dalamar says. “I’ve heard the vallenwoods are breathtaking.”

“They _were_ ,” Raistlin corrects. “The dragonarmies burned most of them down.”

Dalamar looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, an old hurt evident in his profile. “That’s horrible.”

Raistlin shrugs, the stiffness of the motion the only thing betraying any emotion. “They're trees. They will grow back. Many of Solace’s citizens live on, which is what matters. A feeling I suppose _you_ would know well.”

Dalamar nods. “The trees were still bleeding when we returned,” he says with some difficulty, his fist clenching almost imperceptibly.

Raistlin shuts his eyes, for a moment, and the warped image of the Sylvanesti _he_ saw is waiting behind his eyelids. He suppresses a shudder.

Dalamar drinks again, his face shuttered and sad. Thinking of his homeland always sends him into a spiral of depression, even though it’s been almost two years since he was exiled.

“My apologies,” Raistlin says, watching Dalamar closely, now, and not sounding particularly apologetic.  “I saw firsthand what the nightmare wrought; I shouldn't speak of it so lightly.”

“You did?” Dalamar asks, frowning.

Raistlin stills, for just a moment, realizing his mistake. “After the fact,” he lies, voice betraying nothing.

Dalamar hums, looking distractedly into the bottle. “Well, you probably saw more of it than I did. I don’t know if I’m glad or still resentful of the timing.”

“The timing of…?” Raistlin begins, then stops. “Ah.”

Dalamar passes him the bottle of wine, his face very, very carefully blank.

Raistlin frowns, not sure how to bring back the happier side of his unexpected companion. He's also not sure why he cares. “If it’s any consolation, there's hope for Sylvanesti, still. Just as there is for Solace.”

Dalamar looks up at him, moving faster than he’d intended to. His hair whips up with his head, resettling haphazardly across his face. He brushes it away. “Thank you,” he says with wide eyes.

Raistlin manages a nod, then takes a drink and passes the bottle back to Dalamar, letting his fingers brush lightly against Dalamar's as he does. Dalamar almost starts at the unexpected contact, but regains his composure almost immediately. He takes the wine and lets his gaze run over his companion, what he can see of him. He likes this mage, far more than he was expecting to. He likes the way he speaks, the way he holds so much back, the wry twist of his mouth. He likes his slender hands. Dalamar smiles.

Raistlin once again finds his gaze drawn to the elf’s mouth. “Something amusing?”

“Not really,” Dalamar says. “I came over here expecting a facetious conversation and perhaps someone to warm my bed tonight. I didn’t expect to _like_ you.”

Raistlin blinks at Dalamar, surprised. Then, for the first time in a long time, Raistlin Majere laughs.

Dalamar snorts, his face flushing. He takes a drink to hide it.

When Raistlin's laughter has died down, he says, “I was expecting a self-important idiot just trying to impress me. I didn't expect to like _you_ , either.”

Dalamar grins. “I suppose we’ve both gained something here, then.”

“Not yet, at least,” Raistlin says, his voice layered with promise. Before Dalamar can comment, Raistlin continues. “You asked me about the most beautiful place on Krynn; now I believe it's _my_ turn to ask _you_ a question.”

Dalamar feels the flush on his cheeks darken by several shades, but manages to choke out “Yes, of course.”

“Do you make a habit of trying to seduce black robes in random inns to, as you say, 'warm your bed’?”

Dalamar laughs this time, throwing his head back. “No,” he says. “You would be the first.”

“Their loss, then,” Raistlin says, then pauses to wonder if that even makes sense. He belatedly realizes he's already tipsy, and curses himself for being so careless.

Still laughing to himself, Dalamar feels a trickle of warmth enter his chest, something he’s had precious little of since leaving Ergoth. He’s already becoming fond of this wizard. He passes him the bottle of wine, deliberately brushing his hand this time.

Raistlin lets the touch linger, some dusty, unused corner of his mind insisting that it _likes_ Dalamar's laugh. He frowns at the bottle, surprised to find it's close to empty, and takes another drink.

“Ah,” Dalamar says, pulling his hand back. “We’re almost out.”

Raistlin hums in agreement, passing Dalamar what's left of the bottle. “I'll have to watch you drink an entire bottle by yourself another time, it seems.”

Dalamar snickers and downs the rest of the bottle, tipping it up to get every drop. “I suppose you will. Ah, but I’m loathe to leave your company, even though our wine is gone.”

Raistlin gives an amused snort at Dalamar's nonchalant tone. He's seen Kitiara masterfully pull that move so many times, it makes Dalamar's attempt look clumsy. “That _is_ a shame,” he says with a smirk, refusing to play along.

Dalamar sighs. “Usually the line works. I should have known you were better than that,” he snickers.

“I’ve seen the trick in action too many times to ever fall for it myself,” Raistlin says. It would've been almost placating, if he sounded at all sympathetic.

“Who did you see it from?” Dalamar asks, curious. He’s trying to work out how that would work, if it wasn’t directed at the wizard himself.

“My sister,” Raistlin begins, in the annoyed tone of a younger sibling, “has no shame, and never missed an opportunity to flirt, even when my brother and I were present.”

“You have siblings,” Dalamar says, raising his eyebrows. “I never did.”

Raistlin nods. “Two. An older sister and a twin brother.”

“Twins,” Dalamar says. “I can’t imagine that.”

Raistlin makes a face. “You don't want to.”

Dalamar laughs. “I feel like having someone that close would get suffocating. I’ve always enjoyed my privacy.”

“Suffocating,” Raistlin mutters darkly, “Is certainly _one_ word for it.”

“Tell me about your siblings,” Dalamar says, propping his elbow on the table.

Raistlin sighs and shrugs. “You might know Kitiara better as the Blue Lady,” he says, watching Dalamar’s reaction closely. “Takhisis’ top Highlord by the end of the war.”

Dalamar’s eyebrows go sky high. “I see,” he says.

“And Caramon…” Raistlin sighs, then freezes when he remembers he used his brother’s name as an alias earlier. He blames the wine.

A smirk grows on Dalamar’s face. “Twins with the same name, hm? Don’t you think that would get confusing?”

Raistlin scowls at Dalamar. “It did, in fact.”

Dalamar snickers. “Your brother is Caramon, too… the brothers Caramon,” he says, dissolving into a fit of quiet giggling.

Raistlin lets Dalamar laugh for a moment, vaguely amused, then makes a decision. “Actually, _he’s_ the only Caramon. Caramon Majere.”

Dalamar stops laughing. “Then you’re Raistlin Majere,” Dalamar says, voice quiet.

“So you've heard of me,” Raistlin says, as if anyone who knows anything about magic _hasn’t._ “Yes, I am.”

“Ah, gods,” Dalamar says, his eyes going wide. He nods his head, bowing as much as he can while still sitting. “I am at your service.”

“Don't make promises you’re not willing to keep, Dalamar Nightson,” Raistlin practically purrs, leaning forward, the glint of his eyes again visible under his hood, fixed on Dalamar.

Dalamar swallows. “Who said I wasn’t willing to keep them?” Belatedly, he realizes he’s hitting on _Raistlin Majere_ . And Raistlin Majere is hitting on _him_.

“At my service,” Raistlin says slowly, weighing each word. Beneath the hood, his smile is sharp. “And how do you know I won't take advantage of that promise?”

Dalamar shrugs. He’s sure his face is completely red. “I don’t,” he says. “But I wouldn’t mind if you did.” He’s wondered about this mage so much- wondered about his power, his motives, where he was, how he learned. Every once in a while on his travels he’d hear the name _Raistlin Majere_ whispered in hushed tones and it would be a sign to tune into the conversation, which would inevitably be about magic and darkness and power. And here he was, sitting in front of him.

“Careless,” Raistlin says. “But I'm glad.”

“At least I’m very selective of who I’m careless with,” Dalamar replies. If he wasn’t red before, he is now.

“Is that so?” Raistlin asks, grinning. “What's so special about _me_ , then?”

“You’re- you’re Raistlin Majere,” Dalamar says. “You control a dragon orb. You saved Sylvanesti from the nightmare. I can’t even begin to fathom the amount of knowledge you have,” Dalamar says, but leaves the _and I want it_ unspoken.

Raistlin hears it anyway, and his grin sharpens. “You’re right; you can’t. But if anything, that should make you _less_ careless.” As he speaks, his hand grazes Dalamar’s where it rests on the table.

Dalamar’s eyes widen. He leaves his hand where it is, letting the warmth of Raistlin’s skin seep into his. “And what do you make of the fact that I am not?”

“A lucky find on my part,” Raistlin says, in his strange, soft way.

Dalamar smiles. “I have an unopened bottle of Sylvanesti wine upstairs,” he says, “if you want any.”

“I probably shouldn't,” Raistlin says, even as his thumb strokes lightly across Dalamar’s knuckles.

“Worried you’ll acquire a taste for Sylvanesti?” Dalamar smirks, then adds, “wine.”

Raistlin's lips quirk into a wry smile. “Worried I already have.”

Dalamar flips his hand, placing it lightly on top of Raistlin’s. “Will you join me?” he asks.

Raistlin briefly considers saying no. This was an amusing flirtation, but he has a great deal of traveling to do and besides, it wouldn't be wise to drop his defenses in front of a total stranger. But he likes Dalamar. Enjoys speaking with him and enjoys _looking at_ him. And while Dalamar is a stranger, Raistlin can tell that his attraction, at least, is genuine. As strong as Raistlin’s own. “I will.”

Dalamar stands in one fluid motion, looking smug. He holds out his hand to Raistlin. Raistlin smirks, stands, and takes it. His heart beating in his throat, Dalamar tugs Raistin towards the stairs. Raistlin follows willingly, at least until they turn into the stairwell and out of sight of the rest of the inn’s patrons. Then, he drops Dalamar’s hand and, instead, crowds him against the wall. “You seem nervous,” he says, even less of his face visible now, under the shadows of his hood.

“Haven’t we been over this?” Dalamar responds, unsure whether to push him away.

Raistlin stands close to Dalamar in the cramped corridor. He tilts Dalamar’s face up toward his, grip surprisingly gentle, and says, something almost like worry bleeding into his voice, “We have. But I need you to know, you may not like what you find under this hood.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dalamar breathes.

“My appearance can be...unsettling,” Raistlin says.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Dalamar admits. “Are you worried I’ll change my mind?”

Raistlin just shrugs, the movement stiff.

Dalamar tilts his head, considering. “Now I’m curious.” He takes Raistlin by the hand again and tugs him towards the stairs. “You don’t need to worry. The rumors I’ve heard don’t scare me.”

Raistlin grumbles something that sounds sort of like, “Not _worried_ ,” but he lets Dalamar tug him along.

Up the stairs and around a corner Dalamar pulls him, to a narrow door in a line of other narrow doors. It opens onto a narrow room, sparsely furnished. Dalamar shuts the door behind them. Raistlin takes a moment to glance over the room, and then he turns to Dalamar. Finally, he lowers his hood.

Dalamar takes in the white hair, the gaunt metallic face, the hourglass eyes. Raistlin’s face is fine-boned and strange, and Dalamar can’t help but think that he would have been very beautiful once. He’s not sure that he _isn’t_ beautiful now. Carefully, he brushes the back of his hand against Raistlin’s cheekbone.

Raistlin’s eyes flutter shut, for just a moment.

Dalamar takes his hand away and heads for his pack, then turns back to Raistlin with a bottle in his hands. “Shall we?” he asks, grinning.

“Yes. But _first,”_ Raistlin says, and then he turns presses a long hand to the door and finds the necessary words of magic to put up a protective seal around it. If he's going to be drinking wine with a handsome young elf, he's at least not going to be a fool about it.

The magic sends a thrill down Dalamar’s back, and he uncorks the bottle with a word, pulling out two earthenware mugs that he’d found in the northern ruins. They have inlaid designs made of thin slices of gemstone and agate, and he’s rather fond of them.

Raistlin watches Dalamar pour the drinks coolly. He doesn't bother checking for poison this time, but he _does_ wait for Dalamar to drink first.

Dalamar does, raising his glass in a sort of toast to Raistlin beforehand. The spicy taste of Sylvanesti autumn slips down his throat, bringing with it the familiar pang of homesickness.

With a wry smile, Raistlin matches the gesture, then drinks. The wine burns, in a pleasant, tingly way, and Raistlin studies the mug’s contents with interest. “I can see why Sylvanesti wine is so famed, now.”

“It’s the best there is,” Dalamar says with a wry smile. “Though perhaps I’m biased.”

“Perhaps,” Raistlin says, taking another drink, “But I have never tasted its like.”

Dalamar smiles, pleased, and takes another drink. Raistlin finds the smile oddly charming, and it worries him. Perhaps he's too drunk. Or not drunk enough.

“I was right,” Dalamar says, suddenly.

Raistlin blinks at Dalamar, then raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“You being an engaging conversational partner,” Dalamar grins.

Raistlin snorts. “You were _lucky._ ”

“Lucky or smart,” Dalamar says. “I’ll take either.”

“Call it both, then,” Raistlin says. “This time, at least.”

Dalamar smirks. He can’t seem to tear his eyes off of the man in front of him. Every time he moves, the light from the oil lamps catches a different angle, a different facet of him. It’s entrancing.

Raistlin notices Dalamar’s attention and smirks. He starts making his way over to Dalamar, finally moving away from the door. “It's rude to stare,” he says, teasing.

“My apologies,” Dalamar says, but he doesn’t look away.

Raistlin hums, and brings a hand up to brush two fingers along Dalamar's jaw. “You do seem _so_ remorseful.”

The touch is electric. Dalamar leans into it ever so slightly. “You’ve caught me again.”

“Like I said, you're not as good at hiding your emotions as you seem to think.”

“I feel I should be offended,” Dalamar pouts.

Raistlin shrugs and traces his thumb along Dalamar’s lower lip.

Dalamar opens his mouth, keeping eye contact with Raistlin. The tip of his tongue just touches the pad of Raistlin’s thumb. Raistlin almost snatches his hand away, caught by surprise. He hides the surprise under a smirk, his gaze locked on Dalamar’s lips. Dalamar raises an eyebrow, waiting to see what Raistlin will do.

Raistlin does nothing. He drops his hand and drinks more of his wine.

Dalamar snorts, and drinks as well. He’s not too drunk to think Raistlin isn’t toying with him. He sits down on the bed and proffers the room’s only chair to the mage. Raistlin settles down into it, his eyes never leaving Dalamar.

He sits forward in the seat. “Do you know what these eyes mean?”

Dalamar shakes his head.

“They’re a _souvenir_ from my Test. I’m cursed to see time as it affects all living things,” Raistlin says, still not looking away from Dalamar, not even for a second. “I see decay on the faces of everyone I meet. On my friends’, my siblings’, _my_ _own._ But not yours.”

“Because I’m an elf?” Dalamar asks.

Raistlin smiles a little. “It's how I guessed your age earlier. How old are you, exactly?”

“Ninety-five,” Dalamar replies.

Raistlin nods, unsurprised. “It’s been years since I've seen beauty like yours, and then, it was an elf about your age.”

Dalamar blinks. “I see,” he says. He knows most people find him attractive, but put like that it seems to mean something more.

“So do I,” Raistlin says with a self-satisfied smirk. “For once.”

Dalamar cracks up, leaning back against the wall to laugh. Raistlin's smirk widens into a smile and he sits back, realizing that he's thoroughly drunk, now.

“And what are you going to do with your newfound sight?” Dalamar asks, still chuckling.

Raistlin’s smile settles into something sharper. “Appreciate the view as much as I can.”

“Well,” Dalamar says, brushing his hair away from his long, slender neck, “let me make that easier for you.” He takes off his cloak and moves to unbutton his shirt.

Raistlin’s eyes widen, but he doesn't move to stop Dalamar. His gaze is hungry, locked on Dalamar’s hands. “How...thoughtful.”

“You could help, if you’d like,” Dalamar smirks.

“But you're doing so well,” Raistlin says. “I’m happy to just watch.”

Laughing, Dalamar stands, shrugging out of his shirt slowly. After he pulls it over his head he leans forward and brushes Raistlin’s hair back from his face. Raistlin grabs Dalamar’s hand and kisses his knuckles, then trailing kisses down to his wrist and the pulse point there. He uses his grip to tug Dalamar toward him.

Dalamar lets himself be tugged, then grins, wide and self-satisfied. “Ah-ah-ah,” he says, gently removing his arm from Raistlin’s grasp and placing it behind his back. “I believe you said you were happy just watching.”

Raistlin narrows his eyes at Dalamar, but he sits back to let him continue. “Fine, then. Go on.”

Dalamar reaches for his belt, and somewhere deep inside of him, a voice of reason speaks up, cutting through the haze of alcohol and lust. _Do you really expect him to take you seriously after you let him fuck you?_ He hesitates.

Raistlin raises an eyebrow. Biting his lip, Dalamar reaches for his wine, drunk enough that his anxiety is clear on his face. Raistlin watches him, concerned. “What is it?”

“I’m…… worried, all of a sudden,” Dalamar says, almost without meaning to. He feels like someone is clutching at his windpipe, cutting off his air, so he stares into his cup and tries to breathe.

“About what?” Raistlin asks. He stands,manages to get the cup out of Dalamar’s hand, and sets it on the rickety bedside table, instead gently tilting Dalamar’s face up to look at him.

Dalamar purses his lips slightly, his eyes still dark. He pulls his face out of Raistlin’s grasp, instead taking the mage’s hand in his own. He moves the fingers about as he speaks. “What do you think of me?” he asks. “I’m not asking out of vanity, I truly want to know.”

Raistlin takes a moment to think over the unexpected question. He wonders what the right answer is. “You're clever and bold, fearless enough to flirt with a black-robed mage and foolish enough to continue after learning he's arguably the most powerful on the continent. Your ambition and excitement over magic remind me of myself, when I was younger.”

“Hm,” Dalamar says, raising Raistlin’s hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. He feels a little like a spoiled child, requiring reassurance like that, but his feet seem to be back on solid ground nevertheless.

“I hope you realize,” Raistlin says, partially distracted by Dalamar's soft lips kissing his hand, “That that's the highest compliment I could give.”

Dalamar looks up at him, eyes wide. He pulls Raistlin closer, determined to show his gratitude and relief in some tangible way. Raistlin lets himself get pulled.

“Thank you,” Dalamar says, soft. “I was worried I’d made you think less of me.”

Raistlin gives Dalamar a wry smile. “Why, for trying to seduce me when we’ve only just met?”

“Mm,” Dalamar says. “Some would read that as an attempt to curry favor.”

Raistlin shrugs. “I would do worse than sleep with someone, if it was in my best interest,” he says with a sharp grin. “Even if you _are_ trying to curry favor, you're clearly not...wholly uninterested.”

“I admit it may have been my intention when I approached you,” Dalamar says with a wry smile, “but since then I’ve decided your respect is more important to me. Hence… worrying if I’d ruined that.”

“My respect for you won't be affected by whether or not you choose to sleep with me,” Raistlin says, perhaps a little harsher than he means to. “What _will_ affect my respect is your mind and your merit. So whatever happens next is your choice.”

Dalamar kisses him. Raistlin hums in surprise and kisses back, hands coming up to cup Dalamar’s face. Dalamar runs his hands down Raistlin’s forearms, resting them at the crook of his elbow.

Raistlin breaks apart just enough to breathe “Good choice,” against Dalamar's lips before kissing him again.

Dalamar winds his hands into the front of Raistlin’s robes and tugs him closer, deepening the kiss as he does. Raistlin’s hands explore Dalamar’s chest, trailing slowly down to settle at his waist. Dalamar hums, smiling against Raistlin’s mouth.

Raistlin feels himself smile into the kiss as well, and his grip on Dalamar’s waist tightens.

Dalamar likes the heat of Raistlin’s hands against his skin. It radiates up through his sides and his chest. He lets go of Raistlin’s robes with one hand and pushes it into his hair.

Raistlin gasps at the touch, a sensation he's not accustomed to, and crowds against Dalamar. Dalamar does it again, stroking Raistlin’s hair, then gathering it up into his fingers and pulling ever so slightly. Sighing against Dalamar's lips, a little, Raistlin works his own hand into Dalamar’s hair. Dalamar feels something inside him melt at the unexpected noise, and strokes his other hand down Raistlin’s neck and along the join with his shoulder.

Raistlin starts to get impatient, then. He wants more of this, all at once, more touch and more warmth and more Dalamar, so he nips at Dalamar’s lower lip and tightens his grip in his hair, making his desires more clear. Dalamar gasps into his mouth, runs his thumb up the line of Raistlin’s throat. He tilts his head up towards Raistlin.

Raistlin kisses his way down to Dalamar’s jawline, nipping and kissing at the soft skin there. Dalamar gasps again, whimpers a little without meaning to, and wraps his arms around Raistlin’s neck, tilting his head back to give the mage more access.

Raistlin moans into Dalamar's skin at the sound. He wraps an arm around Dalamar's waist, pulling him closer, and carefully sucks a mark at the juncture of Dalamar's jaw.

Dalamar shudders against him. “Ah, gods,” he says, clutching at Raistlin’s back.

Raistlin brushes some of Dalamar's hair away from his face and kisses him, and Dalamar bites his bottom lip in response. Raistlin's hand involuntarily tightens in Dalamar's hair, making him tug a little harder than he meant to, and he gasps into the kiss. Dalamar replaces his teeth on Raistlin’s lip with his tongue, and his hand finds the clasp to Raistlin’s robes. It hovers there, waiting.

Raistlin nods, then trails kisses along Dalamar’s jaw. Dalamar undoes the clasp, letting the top of Raistlin’s robes fall open. He pushes them aside and strokes a hand down the wizard’s chest, feeling ribs under fragile skin.

Raistlin shudders at how cold Dalamar’s fingers are and begins working at the clasp of Dalamar's cloak. Dalamar helps, shrugging it off and then breaking the kiss for an instant to pull his shirt over his head. Raistlin steps back a moment to survey the tanned skin exposed to him, his gaze predatory. Dalamar grins, smug, and pushes his hair out of the way. “I like the look on your face,” he says.

Raistlin’s gaze, if possible, gets even hungrier, and he smirks at Dalamar. “Do you?” he asks, then holds a hand out to Dalamar. “Show me how much you like it.”

Dalamar takes his hand and kisses it, reverent, then undoes his pants with his other hand and slips out of them. He knows he’s a bit of a show off, but if he can make Raistlin look at him like that a bit longer, he counts it as a win for him. He places the hand of Raistlin’s he’s still holding onto on his chest and quirks an eyebrow. “I want you to keep doing it,” he says. “Look all you like.”

Raistlin smirks and steps closer to Dalamar, his hands slowly drifting down Dalamar’s body. He leans down and, into Dalamar's ear, breathes, “I’d rather touch you.”

Dalamar shivers. “Gods,” he mutters. “By all means, do that.”

Raistlin grins into Dalamar’s hair and pushes the elf toward the bed. Dalamar falls backwards on top of it, letting his limbs sprawl and his hair fan out behind his head. He smirks up at Raistlin.

Raistlin takes another moment just to appreciate the view, then he climbs onto the bed, on top of Dalamar, and kisses him. Dalamar surges up to meet him, eager, already winding his hands into Raistlin’s hair.

Raistlin doesn't let the kiss last long before dipping down and kissing Dalamar’s neck, nipping and biting at the skin there. Dalamar moans and tips his head back, giving Raistlin more space. He tugs on Raistlin’s silvery hair.

“Beautiful,” Raistlin breathes into Dalamar’s skin, working his way down to Dalamar’s collarbone.

Dalamar gasps into Raistlin’s hair. “Gods,” he says. “Gods.” He wraps his bare legs around Raistlin’s middle and arches into him. Raistlin gasps and kisses Dalamar again, his hips grinding down into Dalamar's. Dalamar gasps and writhes, moaning into Raistlin’s mouth. He scrabbles vaguely at Raistlin’s robes, trying to push them the rest of the way down, and Raistlin helps him, pushing the black robes the rest of the way off and tossing them aside. Then, he's kissing Dalamar again, one hand cupping Dalamar's cheek. Dalamar grinds up into him, skin on skin, and again, his nails dig into Raistlin’s back hard enough to leave marks.

Raistlin growls into the kiss before breaking it and, breathing heavily, says, “You...do you have any…?”

Panting, Dalamar gestures to his pack, falling back on the bed. Raistlin shifts off the bed just far enough to be able to root through the pack one-handed. There are the usual traveling items, and Raistlin recognizes several basic spell components, and a minute later, he's fully back on the bed, a small vial of an oil-like mixture in his hand.

He pours a little onto his hand, and, without waiting any longer, strokes Dalamar’s dick once, twice, sitting back to watch the elf’s reactions with hungry eyes. Dalamar moans, then gasps and arches, breathing heavily. His pupils are blown and his eyes wide, his face the picture of hungry need. Raistlin continues, picking up a slow rhythm and occasionally varying it with twists of his wrist. Dalamar keens, reaching for Raistlin and pulling him down until he can pant into the golden skin of his shoulder.

“I love the noises you make,” Raistlin says into Dalamar’s ear, his naturally quiet voice dropping even lower, “I can’t wait to hear you-- _see_ you-- fall apart by my hand.”

Dalamar visibly shudders against Raistlin. Raistlin kisses him, then, his knee nudging Dalamar’s legs further apart. Dalamar kisses him back, relaxing back onto the bed and Raistlin pressing down onto him. He spreads his thighs.

Raistlin kisses his way down Dalamar’s neck, then along his collarbone, all the while feeling around the sheets for the vial of oil-like mixture he threw aside. Once he finds it, he sits up, uncaps it, and pours a little more onto his fingers, his other hand running up Dalamar’s thigh. Dalamar watches him and sighs, arching his back slightly.

Raistlin smirks at Dalamar as his fingers trail down Dalamar’s cock and then lower, pressing just lightly enough to be teasing. Dalamar squirms, and scowls at Raistlin. “You just love tormenting people, don’t you?”

“Tormenting?” Raistlin asks, something almost like _innocence_ in his voice, or as close as he can get to it, “And here I thought you wanted this…” He presses a little harder.

“Gods,” Dalamar says. “Ah, gods, I do, I do want it.”

Raistlin grins and presses the rest of the way inside, giving Dalamar a moment to adjust before pumping his finger out, then in again. Dalamar squirms, holding tight to Raistlin’s hair with both hands, and Raistlin peppers light kisses across Dalamar’s face, surprisingly tender for a drunken night with a stranger.

When he thinks Dalamar is ready, he adds a second finger.

Dalamar grimaces, rocking his hips slightly. He tugs on Raistlin’s hair. Raistlin hums, kisses Dalamar again. With his free hand, he starts stroking Dalamar more, even while his other scissors Dalamar open.

“Gods!” Dalamar hisses, driving himself down onto Raistlin’s fingers. “Get on with it, or I’m going to- agh,” he says, his voice trailing off into a moan.

Raistlin’s eyes widen and he nods, pulling his fingers out and stroking himself a few times before lining himself up and pushing in, slowly but steadily. He watches Dalamar’s face the whole time. Dalamar’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs, grimacing slightly. He lets go of Raistlin and grips the sheets beneath him, adjusting himself even as he wraps his legs again around Raistlin’s torso.

Raistlin gives him a moment to adjust, trembling slightly with the effort of keeping still. He waits for some sort of encouragement to continue from Dalamar, resting his forehead against the elf’s and breathing heavily.

Dalamar kisses him, then growls. “Move!”

Raistlin does, kissing Dalamar and smirking into it. He immediately sets a fast pace, his hand tangling in Dalamar's hair and pulling. Dalamar moans, rolling his hips into Raistlin’s, his nails carving stripes in Raistlin’s back that show red against his golden skin.

Raistlin bites Dalamar’s lip in retaliation, then his jaw, then his neck. He hooks a hand around Dalamar’s thigh, nails biting into the smooth skin there, and hoists it up higher around his waist, deepening the angle of his thrusts. Dalamr gasps, throws his head back and grinds in the same rhythm, panting.

Raistlin pants into Dalamar’s neck. He has one hand twisted in the sheets, holding himself up above Dalamar, and the other he uses to stroke Dalamar in time with his thrusts. Dalamar moans Raistlin’s name, his hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets, his legs wrapping tighter around Raistlin.

Raistlin kisses Dalamar, briefly, then puts enough distance between the two of them that he's able to see Dalamar’s face. “Look at me,” he orders, his words no louder than a whisper but carrying the weight of the most powerful spell.

Dalamar does, meeting the hourglass eyes with his own. His hips shudder and he comes all at once, moaning Raistlin’s name. Raistlin's eyes widen, his rhythm stuttering, and he comes moments later, pressing his forehead to Dalamar’s, his eyes screwed shut tight and his breath coming in gasps. Dalamar breathes for a minute and then presses his lips to Raistlin’s, softly. Raistlin kisses back, a little delayed.

Raistlin pulls out and, because the bed is too narrow to lay side by side, settles himself half-draped across Dalamar. Dalamar adjusts a little, settling a hand on Raistlin’s waist.

“Wow,” he says, after a minute, then adds a few words of magic that whisk away the mess. It drains him, a little, and he sighs into Raistlin’s hair.  

Raistlin hums, the sound somewhere between a question and an acknowledgement.

Dalamar kisses the side of his head. “For all the wondering I’ve done about you, I never thought about what you’d be like in bed.”

Raistlin snorts and drapes an arm around Dalamar's waist. “A missed opportunity,” he says faintly, sleepily.

“I suppose I don’t need to wonder now,” Dalamar says. He’s so very comfortable like this.

Raistlin props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Dalamar, expression thoughtful. “You've really wondered about me that much?”

“I’ve wondered about a lot of things,” Dalamar replies. “There’s not much else to do as a wandering exile.” The statement lacks the bite it usually has, and Dalamar’s face remains peaceful, if a bit sad. “You were one of things I wondered about, yes.”

“Hm,” Raistlin says, expression growing even more thoughtful. He wonders exactly what Dalamar Nightson has been through.

“Hm,” Dalamar responds, opening his eyes and looking up at Raistlin. His silver-white hair is falling in his face, the light of the oil lamps glistening on his golden skin. Dalamar can see where his nails bit into Raistlin’s shoulder and feels a rush of pride.  

Raistlin smirks, guessing at Dalamar's thoughts, and looks down at the marks on his skin. Then he lays back down, closer to Dalamar, this time.

“How did you start learning magic?” Dalamar asks quietly.

Raistlin tilts his head and regards Dalamar curiously, his hair sweeping over his shoulder with the movement. “My sister is to thank for it,” he says, looking out across the room, eyes growing distant, “I was too sickly to be a warrior, so she decided I’d be good at magic instead. As it turns out, she was right. Thanks to her, I was enrolled in a small school of magic near Solace.”

“The Blue Lady did that?” Dalamar asks, his eyes on Raistlin’s face. “Did you like it? School.”

Raistlin makes a face. “No. My classmates were idiots and the teacher was an incompetent fool who wouldn’t know real magic if it bit him in the--,” Raistlin cuts himself off, there, and sighs. He looks down at Dalamar and shrugs. “It was school.”

Dalamar snorts. “That means nothing to me. I never went. I suppose you’re well rid of the place.”

“Where did you learn _your_ magic?” Raistlin asks, frowning.

“On my own,” Dalamar says. “Mostly. I was _allowed_ to learn a few useful spells, but it was a rare case.” His voice is bitter and disdainful. “I was taught those by my masters, but forbidden to learn more.”

“Hm,” Raistlin says. “I suppose you’re well rid of them all.”

Dalamar’s breath catches. All at once, he feels as if something the size of a giant is sitting on his chest, pressing on his ribs, his heart. “I,” he starts, then stops to take a breath. “I am, but. They were fools, but- not all of them- it was my _home_ ,” he finishes, lamely, trying to keep the welling tension in his chest from reaching his face, his eyes. He doesn’t want to show that much weakness in front of Raistlin Majere, even after sharing a bed with him.

Raistlin’s eyes widen a little, realizing he’d apparently said the exact wrong thing. As a sort of apology, he finds Dalamar’s hand and brings it up to his lips, kissing it. Dalamar looks at him, his eyes wide, his shoulders shaking. Raistlin kisses Dalamar’s hand again, then trailing his long fingers down Dalamar’s forearm and dropping his hand to Dalamar’s chest.

“I understand,” Raistlin says. “You’ll be alright.”

Dalamar closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and then another, waiting for the pain to pass. Raistlin’s hand is warm on his chest and he focuses on it, letting the heat spread. He sighs.

Raistlin’s thumb rubs soothing circles into Dalamar’s chest. He stays quiet as Dalamar calms down, and can’t help but feel a little guilty. The emotion annoys him; usually, he's able to tamp it down.

Dalamar keeps his eyes closed, letting himself relax. He realizes no one has ever understood before- at the very least, no one has told him that. It brings up more questions about Raistlin’s life, but he’s content to let the feeling lie, to suppress his curiosity. After a while, he starts talking again. “There was a cave,” he says. “North of Sylvanost, along the river. No one knew of it but me. Some mage had left their spellbooks there, a long time ago.”

Raistlin blinks. “You studied from them,” he guesses.

“Yes,” Dalamar says. “All of them were dark, and all of them were dedicated to Nuitari.”

Raistlin raises an eyebrow. “And the first thing you thought when you found them was to try to study them?”

“No,” Dalamar says. “The first thing I thought of was how brave my predecessor must have been, to keep them within Sylvanesti. Then I got curious, and _then_ I studied them.”

Raistlin snorts. “Fair enough.”

Dalamar chuckles. “You asked how I learned, and that’s how.”

“I did,” Raistlin concedes. “I’m glad I did.”

Dalamar huffs, and smiles. “Did you have an apprenticeship?” he asks.

“No. I did not.”

“Oh,” says Dalamar. “Why not?”

“They heard about what happened during my test and they feared me,” Raistlin says, his mouth twisting into a sneering smile, “Most likely, they hoped I’d die off without one and leave them alone.”

Dalamar’s eyebrows go up. “They thought I’d die, too,” he says. “When I was exiled. Most dark elves take their own lives.” He snorts. “Fools.”

Raistlin’s smile widens. “Makes you want to show them what happens when they underestimate you, doesn’t it?” he asks mildly.

Dalamar grins in response, sharp and feral. Raistlin leans down and kisses him. Dalamar’s hand comes up and tangles in Raistlin’s hair, pulling him closer as he kisses him back. Raistlin hums into it, his hand still on Dalamar’s chest, supporting his weight. Dalamar places a hand over the one on his chest and sighs, smiling.

Raistlin shifts his weight to hover over Dalamar further and groans, breaking the kiss. “Damn you. I have a long way to travel tomorrow, and now I'm going to be sore for half of it.”

“ _You’re_ going to be sore,” Dalamar groans. He strokes Raistlin’s hair. “I’m going to have to spend half the day in bed.”

Raistlin grins and traces a long, delicate finger along a bruise already starting to form on Dalamar's collarbone. “Consider it a momento.”

Dalamar flushes. He was absolutely going to, but he doesn’t necessarily want Raistlin to know that. “I wonder if we’ll meet again,” he says. “Perhaps on the paths of magic, after I take my Test.”

Raistlin stops tracing the bruise. “It's possible,” he says, unwilling to verbalize the fact that he's secretly been thinking of Dalamar as _his_ apprentice since the dark elf first mentioned his desire to take the test. “Very likely, in fact.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dalamar replies, picking up one of Raistlin’s hands and holding it out in front of him, admiring the tendons and slender fingers. He kisses the knuckles, the palm, the finger pads.

Raistlin watches him through half-lidded eyes, the wine from earlier still making his head buzz pleasantly. “I'm not sure you'd have it any other way, whether I wanted to meet again or not.”

Dalamar kisses his hand again. “I can be very stubborn, yes.”

Raistlin hums. “I'm not sure I need more stubbornness in my life.”

“Ah, I sense uncertainty,” Dalamar says, lacing their fingers together. “Perhaps you do.”

Raistlin, admiring the look of his golden hand linked with the elf’s tanned one, snorts. “Sex has made you bold, Dalamar Nightson.”

Dalamar just laughs.

Raistlin smiles into Dalamar's chest, then sighs, slipping his hand out of Dalamar's. “I should leave. I'm not in the habit of _sleeping with_ the people I sleep with.”

Dalamar isn’t in that habit either- he’s known for being a very unsentimental lover. However, he feels disappointment creep into his chest as Raistlin takes his hand away, and spends a moment wondering what changed. “Ah,” he says, trying and failing to keep the feeling out of his voice.

Raistlin props himself up on his elbow again and looks down at Dalamar coolly. Then, he leans down and kisses Dalamar again, slow and gentle, his free hand coming up to cup Dalamar's face. Dalamar wraps both his arms around Raistlin’s neck and kisses back. He surprises himself by how much he wants Raistlin to stay.

He breaks the kiss. “Stay,” he whispers, soft and quiet.

Raistlin sighs, the sound more contented this time, and nods. He trails the pads of his fingers slowly down Dalamar’s chest, all five fingers, stopping just above his heart. “If you insist.”

The movement reminds Dalamar of something, but he can’t be bothered to remember what it is. He pulls himself up towards Raistlin and kisses him again.

Raistlin's hand flattens against Dalamar’s chest and he kisses back, leaning more squarely over Dalamar to get a better angle on it. Dalamar sits up, pushing Raistlin up with him and letting go of him with one arm to prop himself up on the bed. He winds his other hand into Raistlin’s hair.

Raistlin gasps a little at the sudden position change, then grins and kisses Dalamar, winding a thin arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Dalamar does the same, moving his arm to Raistlin’s waist and pulling him more fully into his lap. He opens his mouth into the kiss and sighs.

Raistlin shivers at the sound and presses himself against Dalamar as closely as he can. Dalamar pulls away, but only far enough to pepper soft kisses along Raistlin’s jaw and down his neck, leaning forward more to get a better angle. He sucks a mark into Raistlin’s collarbone, carefully and deliberately.

Raistlin lets him, angling his head and even arching into Dalamar’s mouth. His nails dig into Dalamar’s back, making marks similar to the ones Dalamar left on him earlier.

Dalamar does the same to a spot on his throat, right above his pulse point. The fluttering beat of the mage’s heart against his lips makes Dalamar think, for a second, of how fragile and swift human life is, and his arm tightens around Raistlin’s waist. Raistlin sighs into Dalamar’s hair, buries his face in it, runs his fingers through the soft tresses. Dalamar makes a third mark at the place where Raistlin’s neck and shoulders join and then kisses the skin there, humming lightly as Raistlin’s hands card through his hair.

Raistlin turns Dalamar’s head toward him and kisses him, lightly, before pulling back and smirking down at him. “Are you done, then?”

“For now, I suppose,” Dalamar says, smiling back. His eyes are half-lidded and dark in the dim light, his face relaxed.

“Hm,” Raistlin says, running his hand along the line of marks Dalamar just made. Unless he wears his hood up, only one will be hidden by his robes. “I’m meeting with the heads of the Conclave tomorrow.”

Dalamar blinks, then looks up at Raistlin, slightly horrified. “Oh.”

Raistlin shrugs, entirely indifferent. “Their opinions mean nothing to me.”

Dalamar snorts. “Well, in that case.” He bends his mouth to Raistlin’s shoulder and continues his attentions.

Raistlin’s grip on Dalamar tightens. “Insatiable,” he mutters. It’s meant to sound reproachful, but it comes out breathy.

His voice sends a thrill down all of Dalamar’s nerves, and he chuckles. He starts kissing his way down Raistlin’s chest, occasionally using teeth, pushing the mage back slowly as he reaches the lower end of his sternum. Raistlin watches him, breathing heavy and gaze proprietary, occasionally running his hand through Dalamar’s hair or tugging when he uses too much teeth. Dalamar pushes him down further, until he’s against the bed, and kisses down his stomach, then along the inside of his thigh. He glances up at Raistlin.

Raistlin shudders and nods, ready for a second round despite himself. Dalamar grins and runs the tip of his tongue along the side of Raistlin’s already erect cock, then takes the head of it into his mouth. Raistlin’s eyes widen and his head falls back against the bed, a soft moan escaping past his lips. Dalamar takes more of him into his mouth, swirling his tongue against the slit in the head. He scrapes his nails lightly down Raistlin’s stomach.

“Gods,” Raistlin breathes, throwing an arm over his eyes and arching up into Dalamar’s mouth. Dalamar’s blood turns to fire, and he cups a hand around the soft skin at the base of Raistlin’s cock and starts bobbing his head, feeling very smug. Raistlin swears under his breath and props himself up on an elbow to watch. With his free hand, he brushes Dalamar’s hair away from his face. Dalamar takes as much of Raistlin as he can into his mouth, burying his nose in the curly hair at the base. He looks up and meets Raistlin’s eyes, doing something obscene with his tongue along the underside of Raistlin’s cock as he does.

Raistlin’s grip in Dalamar’s hair tightens painfully and he keens, squirming a little and trying not to thrust up into Dalamar’s mouth. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” He pants, hardly even aware that he said it. Dalamar pulls back, grinning, and then bobs his head down again, all the way. He runs his hands over Raistlin’s sharp hipbones.

“Dalamar,” Rastlin gasps, almost a warning, his head falling back again.

Dalamar hums against Raistlin’s cock. Raistlin comes, collapsing back against the bed and back bowing, hand still tangled in Dalamar’s hair. Dalamar swallows all of it, pulling another moan out of Raistlin. He eventually tugs on Dalamar’s hair, when he can’t take any more. Dalamar pulls away, still licking his lips, and sits back to survey his handiwork.

At Dalamar's smug look, Raistlin huffs, indignant, and makes himself sit up. “Back up,” he orders, pushing Dalamar toward the rickety bed’s headboard. Dalamar does, still smirking. He quirks an eyebrow at Raistlin.

Once Dalamar is sitting with his back to the headboard, Raistlin straddles his thighs and kisses him. Dalamar runs a hand lazily up Raistlin’s side, kissing him back. Raistlin works both hands into Dalamar’s hair and ups the intensity of the kiss, biting Dalamar's lip and licking into his mouth when his lips part. Dalamar moans, sucking lightly on Raistlin’s tongue. His hands move from Raistlin’s sides to his chest.

Raistlin’s hands find Dalamar’s wrists, and he pulls Dalamar’s hands away from his chest, instead pushing them against the headboard on either side of Dalamar's head. Dalamar’s eyes widen. “Is that how you like it?” he asks, low.

Raistlin's answering expression is almost a sneer, almost a smile. “Depends on my partner,” he breathes against Dalamar's lips. Dalamar feels a chill run down his spine, and, experimentally, he flexes against Raistlin’s hold.

Raistlin narrows his eyes at Dalamar. He leans in and ghosts his lips along Dalamar’s jaw. For a moment, his breathing deepens and his grip loosens as he slips into the necessary concentration, and then he's whispering words of magic into Dalamar’s ear, words Dalamar forgets the moment he hears him.

Raistlin drops his hands, leans into Dalamar a moment while he recovers from the spell.

Dalamar frowns. He doesn’t know that particular spell. He moves to put his arms around Raistlin, who’s breathing heavily, and finds that he cannot. It’s as if Raistlin’s hands never left his wrists, though he can clearly see both of them in front of him. He tugs harder, but the spell has the strength of a man much larger than he behind it, and his wrists don’t budge. He looks down at Raistlin with wide eyes.

“There,” Raistlin says, tracing a slender finger along the veins of Dalamar's forearm and looking very pleased with himself. “Perfect.” He hesitates. “Just tell me if you want it undone.”

Dalamar takes a deep breath, his face flushing. “It’s fine,” he says, breathy.

Raistlin’s smirk returns, and he puts a hand under Dalamar’s chin, studying the elf’s flushed cheeks cooly. “Good,” he purrs.

Dalamar takes a shaky breath. “So,” he says, letting Raistlin move his face however he wants, “now that you have me like this, what are you going to do with me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Raistlin says, trailing his fingers down Dalamar’s chest, now, nails biting.

“Hmm,” Dalamar says, arching his back.

“Hm,” Raistlin echoes, leaning in and kissing Dalamar’s jaw, then lower, to his neck, biting lightly. Dalamar gasps, squirming again. He presses his face into Raistlin’s hair, his fingers twitching reflexively.

Raistlin grins into Dalamar’s neck, noticing the twitching out of the corner of his eyes. He moves back up to reclaim Dalamar’s lips, hands cupping Dalamar’s cheeks. “I will say,” he begins, “I do _so like_ having you like this.”

“Do you?” Dalamar murmurs. “I can’t say I particularly mind it myself.”

Raistlin hums, his hand trailing slowly down Dalamar’s chest. There's hunger in his eyes again as he says, “I'm glad. Perhaps we’ll get to do this again sometime.”

Dalamar leans and tries to kiss him, but finds it hard with the angle his arms are pinned at. “I do hope so,” he says, eyes dark with want.

“Do you?” Raistlin asks mildly, staying just out of Dalamar’s range. His hand travels lower, lower, down the light trail of hair that begins at Dalamar’s navel, and then grips the base of Dalamar’s cock. “Tell me how much.”

Dalamar starts and groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. “H-how much?” he breathes, and laughs. “You’re the most interesting conversational partner I’ve had in years, if not ever,” he says, “and you’re gorgeous. A lot. I want to see you again very much.” It’s hard to sound anything but earnest with Raistlin’s hand wrapped around him like that.

“And how much would you give? How much would you sacrifice?” Raistlin's eyes are intent on Dalamar, like he's really curious to hear the answer. He gives an experimental pump of his hand, thumb brushing lightly over the slit in the head. He doesn't even give Dalamar a chance to answer before picking up a steadier pace and leaning in to kiss him, briefly.

Dalamar pants into his mouth, his hips rising off the bed. “Gods, anything,” he said, his eyes wide with pleasure. “Ah, gods, Raistlin!”

Raistlin smirks and leans in close to Dalamar, pace faltering slightly with the new, awkward angle. “I like hearing my name on your lips,” Raistlin breathes against Dalamar’s mouth.

“Raistlin,” Dalamar moans. He pulls at his arms again.

Raistlin's lips quirk up into a smile. He captures Dalamar’s lips in a kiss, his free hand reaching for one of Dalamar's bound ones, twining their fingers together.

Dalamar clutches at him almost desperately, kissing him back with an open mouth even as he shudders. His hips move in a jerky rhythm with Raistlin’s hand, and he mutters Raistlin’s name over and over, like a prayer.

Raistlin sighs at all the praise, his own breathing heavy. He buries his face in Dalamar's neck, first sucking at the sensitive spot at the end of Dalamar's jaw, then nipping at his earlobe. “When we _do_ see each other again,” he breathes into Dalamar's ear, a strange rasp to his voice, “Think of all I'll be able to teach you. Think of the _magic_ we’ll perform, together.”

Dalamar moans again, thrusting into Raistlin’s hand. He swears, and the movement becomes erratic, and then he comes all at once, his eyes wide and mouth open, straining against his bonds. With a word, Raistlin dissolves the bonds holding Dalamar in place. The effect of the magic, a wave of exhaustion, hits him, but he fights it and continues stroking Dalamar through his orgasm. Dalamar’s arms fall and he collapses in a heap against Raistlin, still breathing hard. His limbs feel like jelly.

Raistlin manages to fight it for a minute, but then he has to push Dalamar away, suddenly. He begins to cough. Dalamar freezes, too blissed out to really do anything. Raistlin waves off Dalamar’s worry, and after a few minutes, the fit passes, though there's still a slight rattle in Raistlin's lungs when he breathes. “It's not contagious,” he says, when he can speak. “You don't need to worry.”

“I’m not,” Dalamar says. Not about that, anyway. He, an elf, usually can’t catch human diseases.

Raistlin nods and slumps against Dalamar, tucking his head under Dalamar’s chin. Dalamar wraps his heavy arms around him, stroking Raistlin’s hair.

Raistlin heaves a sigh, which threatens to bring on another coughing fit, but it passes, the familiar burn of magic in his soul flaring and fading back to embers. Dalamar strokes a hand down his back, leaving it settled on his waist. He sighs, too, exhausted and sore but content. He might even use the word _happy_.

Raistlin passes into a fitful sleep less than a minute later, his breathing evening out and his grip on Dalamar’s shoulder slipping. Dalamar frowns. His arm is starting to fall asleep. Carefully, he adjusts Raistlin in his arms until their position is more comfortable. The mage doesn’t wake, and soon Dalamar follows him into slumber.

 

\---

 

When Raistlin wakes, it’s to the sun shining in through the inn’s thin curtains. He's momentarily alarmed at the arms wound around his waist, the heat of another person at his back, and then the events of the previous night coming rushing back to him. The throbbing headache serves as quite the reminder.

He's surprised to find he doesn't regret it, even considering how much he-- drunkenly, he tries to tell himself it was drunkenly-- let his guard down.

They'd somehow managed to shimmy down the bed so they're laying flat. Now, Raistlin twists as much as he can to see Dalamar, surprised to find him just as lovely in the daylight as he seemed last night. Still, even now, Raistlin can see no traces of decay.

While Raistlin is watching him, Dalamar blinks his eyes open sleepily, looking at Raistlin through dark lashes. He yawns and lets go of Raistlin to stretch his entire body like a cat, his dark hair spilling over the pillow. The blanket slips off of his chest, showing off the purpling bruises Raistlin left on him. He relaxes again and turns to Raistlin. “Good morning,” he says.

Raistlin eyes the bruises, a proud smile playing at his lips. “Morning.”

Dalamar smirks at this and reaches for Raistlin, kissing him lightly. “How did you sleep?”

Kissing feels strangely more intimate now, in the light of day, but Raistlin allows it, even leans into it. “Well enough. And you?”

“I am,” Dalamar says, frowning, “so sore.”

Raistlin smirks and turns to face him fully. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” Dalamar says. “I don’t regret it.” He looks closely at Raistlin, wondering if he feels the same. Raistlin smiles, but gives no clues to his thoughts beyond that.

“I should leave,” is all he says, smile fading. “I'd meant to go before sunrise.”

Dalamar sits up. “Mm,” he says. “I should be on my way as well.”

Raistlin sits up as well, and leans into Dalamar with a sleepy hum. Every muscle in his body burns, but it's nothing he isn't used to. Dalamar slips an arm around him and presses a kiss to the side of his head, just as affectionate as he was the night before.

When Raistlin glances over at his robes, he sighs when he sees the messy pile they landed in. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was meeting the heads of the Conclave with hickeys, now his robes would be wrinkled, too. Absently, he reaches up and touches the places he remembers Dalamar leaving marks.

Dalamar watches him do it, looking smug. He stretches again, arching his back. “Is there anything you want from me before you leave?” he asks.

Raistlin just arches an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Dalamar shrugs. “I’ll take that as a no.” He starts getting out of bed and pulling on his pants. Dark bruises cover his neck and shoulders and trail in a line down his chest.

Raistlin does the same, picking his robes up off the floor and slipping them on. He watches Dalamar out of the corner of his eye as he does so, thoughtful.

Dalamar pulls his shirt on, then starts gathering his things and putting them in his pack. The bottle of Sylvanesti wine is half-full. He offers it to Raistlin. “You should take it,” he says.

Raistlin’s lips part in surprise, but he nods and takes it. “I have something for you, as well.”

Dalamar raises an eyebrow.

Raistlin steps up to Dalamar and kisses him, one hand winding its way into Dalamar's hair. Dalamar laughs into Raistlin’s mouth and leans into it, wrapping his arms around the black robes. Raistlin lets the kiss go on for a minute, then he breaks apart and catches Dalamar's chin between his forefinger and thumb, forcing Dalamar to look up at him.

Dalamar does, seeing something in Raistlin’s eyes that makes him wait.

“When you pass the Test, I want you to come find me,” Raistlin says, almost at a normal volume. His tone leaves little room for disobedience. “I'll take you on as an apprentice.”

Dalamar’s eyes widen. “I will,” he says.

Raistlin holds on to Dalamar's chin for a moment longer, studying his face. Then, he lets go, and he turns to leave. Dalamar watches him, still standing by the bed. The image of a black robed mage whispering to him comes back to him unbidden, and he feels the teeth of fate sink into his flesh and hold fast.

 

\---

 

LATER THAT DAY

 

The three heads of the orders of magic meet in Par Salian’s private Chambers. It's a secret meeting, with none of the usual pomp and circumstance. They speak of the darkness still lurking in the world, powerful mages who won't bend to the Conclave’s will, and ways to restore harmony between the three orders after a war that shook the very foundation of the continent.

Par Salian puts away his books and breaks out his collection of elvish wine for the occasion, and eventually, the conversation turns to more pleasant topics.

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the Sylvanesti harvests have almost reached their pre-Nightmare capacity, my dear,” Ladonna says with a smirk.

“I am, actually,” Par Salian replies. “It is a good sign.”

“I’d almost expect you to throw a celebration. I thought the loss of that wine was going to break your heart.”

Par Salian sighs, and takes a drink. Justinius opens his mouth to contribute to the conversation when a knock comes at the door. “I thought you ordered not to be disturbed,” he says to Par Salian.

“I _did_ ,” Par Salian replies, “Except in case of emergencies.”

The door opens, and an alarmed-looking apprentice slips inside, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry to disturb you all,” the apprentice says, looking at each of the Order Heads, giving a nervous little bow to each. “It’s just--,”

The door slams open with a bang, and a black robed wizard strolls into the room, fearless. His hood is up, but he's recognizable from the staff that he leans on alone, notwithstanding the golden tint to his skin. The apprentice shies against the wall.

“Majere,” says Ladonna, coolly. She raises an eyebrow. “And why did you not wait until the appointed time?”

“Ladonna,” Raistlin says, with the same measure of cool detachment. He doesn't so much as look at her, though, his gaze fixed on Par Salian. “I want to get this over with.”

Par Salian leans back and folds his hands in front of him. “I suppose we may as well,” he says, observing the wizard before him. “Palanthas, then.”

“I’ve told you, I won't give you access to it,” Raistlin says.

“But to keep all that magic to yourself,” Justinius splutters, “It’s--,”

“Selfish?” Raistlin guesses. Justinius can’t see much of Raistlin's face under the hood, but he can feel the mage’s strange eyes on him. He suppresses a shudder, and not for the first time, thinks about how _glad_ he is that Raistlin switched to Ladonna's order.

“Betrayal of the Conclave,” Justinius finishes.

Raistlin lowers his hood, letting the full effect of his cold eyes settle on Justinius. He then looks at each of the three wizards in turn, appraising them, and then shrugs.

Ladonna starts choking.

Par Salian looks from her to Raistlin, concerned. “Ladonna?”

She waves a hand, clearly having trouble pulling herself together. From within her lavish robes she withdraws a dark handkerchief and uses it to hide her face as she wheezes.

Raistlin's expression goes from cold and detached to awkward and uncomfortable in a manner of seconds, once he guesses the source of Ladonna’s amusement. Justinius is next to notice, going as red as his robes.

“What in the name of the True Gods has gotten into you?” Par Salian wonders, then peers at Raistlin. “Ah,” he says. “Well.”

Raistlin looks more annoyed than anything, now, as he glares at Ladonna, who's still laughing. For once, he actually looks his age-- that is, _half_ the age of everyone else in the room.

Par Salian sighs. The source of her amusement _is_ rather obvious, once he sees it. It is not something he would have expected, not from Raistlin Majere. He raises an eyebrow. “So- Ladonna, pull yourself together- I suppose that closes the matter, then.”

“I suppose it does,” Raistlin says, still glaring at Ladonna.

She can’t even bring herself to look at him. Par Salian frowns at her, then at Raistlin.

“I’m not at the Conclave’s beck and call,” Raistlin says to Par Salian, trying to continue the conversation and ignore how warm his face is getting. “I have better things to do with my time than answer pointless summons.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Justinius says pointedly.

Ladonna starts laughing for real this time, gasping. “Clearly!” she says.

Par Salian scowls at them both.

Raistlin sighs. “If that'll be all, then,” he says dryly.

Ladonna cackles into her handkerchief.

“That will be all,” Par Salian says, an expression of martyrlike suffering on his face. “I hope you reconsider. I would hate to squander such power as yours. Ladonna, please.”

“I won't,” Raistlin says. With one last glare at Ladonna, and trying to regain at least a _little_ dignity, he drops into his signature low, mocking bow and storms out. On his way, he passes the startled apprentice from before, whose eyes nearly bug out of his head when he notices the dark, mouth-shaped bruises on Raistlin Majere’s neck.

In Par Salian’s chambers, Ladonna dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Gods, that was not something I’d have ever expected to see.”

Justinius visibly shudders.

Par Salian sighs. “He is young.”

“Yes,” Ladonna chuckles. “Very young. And apparently just as weak to matters of the flesh as the rest of us, despite- Par Salian, did you not give him Ravenna’s eyes?”

Par Salian nods. “Perhaps he’s learned to work around the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience,” Ladonna snorts. “Yes. Either that, or he found someone long-lifed enough to cancel that little matter out. Which gives me an idea.” She steeples her fingers in front of her, suddenly serious. “An idea of what to do with him.”

Par Salian looks at her, then at the door where the troublesome mage had just disappeared through. “By all means, enlighten us.”

Ladonna smiles, cold and calculating. “Do you think he would take on an apprentice?”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a sequel to this fic coming eventually, a bit of a fix-it that takes place a few years after Dalamar has been apprenticed to Raistlin. It's already all written, we just have quuiiite a bit of editing to do.


End file.
